I already knew that he was there. Watching. Waiting. Every day I waited for the familiar thrill to start me off. Suddenly I felt the cool stare of his ice-blue eyes graze my body, hungrily taking in each exposed millimetre of my ivory skin. Flickers of recognition raised the small hairs on the back of my neck while a small anticipatory shiver trembled down my spine. It was show time yet again, I thought, as I loosened the pale silk scarf from around the soft scoop of my throat, letting it gently cascade down towards my plain, black stilettos and the worn wooden floor below.
By day, I was one of those non-descript office girls. You know the type: hair bunched tightly and regimentally to my scalp, make-up at the bare minimal and outfits that made my Mum look sexy in her annual Christmas outfit of a moth-eaten velvet dress and thick black tights. It wasn't that I didn't want to be sexy: oh no, my boss made sure that any female inferior to her was made to look as frumpy and unsexy as possible in order to make her shine. Unwittingly I went along with it, and in the long run it only drove up my passion to be sexier by night.
It started about a month ago. There I was in my apartment, sunlight streaming through my wide set windows, pouring luxuriously onto the naturally sun-bleached wooden floors. It had taken me seven years of hard graft, of individually scraping every penny I owned to purchase this one bedroom suntrap. The only unfortunate thing was the location: less than a few metres away stood another block of apartments, modern ones with fancy glass balconies and steel-edged doors. Mine was a classic, Victorian model with sculptured ceilings and features that charmed the socks off me, and best of all it belonged solely to me. No snotty flatmates, no awful sponging blokes. No boomerang siblings or miserably single friends. Yes, I guess it did get kind of lonely in the evenings when I could hear the laughter from the family below, but the pros far outweighed the cons.
On this particular day I had been rushed off my feet at the office, and as I stepped through my door I kicked off my uninspiring shoes into the far corner in a half-fit of frustration tempered with fatigue. Taking a second to regain my composure, I paused to stand in the sunlight, allowing it to warm my aching back. Without shutting my blinds, I pulled off my confining, starchy-white blouse with one angry thrust and let my red curls free from their tightly bound clip. The sun caressed my pale skin eagerly and, as I eased my tight skirt past my tiny thong, I felt free and lighter without my work constraints. It was both liberating and thrilling to be standing in full view from the window; I almost willed someone to catch me, adding a frisson of excitement to an otherwise bland day.
Moments later, I felt the now-familiar eyes of a lustful stranger boring onto my sunlit back and buttocks. Quickly I span around, and there - standing on a balcony opposite my ornate antiquated window - stood a man, open-mouthed, watching me. In my head, I had played out similar scenarios before while masturbating frantically within my silken sheets; yet this time, with an actual, real-life, sexy peeping Tom penetrating me with his eyes, the feeling was unrivalled in its intensity. His face was ruggedly handsome, his eyebrows knotted to guard his eyes from the beautiful sunshine. In his left hand hung a forgotten cigarette end, as his intense stare clearly enjoyed this quick, uninvited show from the balcony. Even from a few metres away I could see the visible outline of his semi-hard penis in the blazing hot sunshine. Seeing him seeing me was perhaps the most arousing thing I had been involved in in a long time -- needless to say, being a single office girl in frumpy fashion didn't get you many numbers. But right now, right here, I felt wanted. After moments of withheld breath, the realisation of my blatant exhibitionism in plain sight suddenly struck me and as a blush matching my hair crept up my cheeks, I fled to my adjoining bedroom, my wetness sticking to the little piece of fabric hiding the secrets of my desires.
Despite my subsequent, short-lived mortification, this scenario went on for weeks; come rain or shine I made sure I gave my voyeur something to watch. I began putting matching underwear on every morning in order to indulge him, my handsome observer. Everyday, no matter how hard and trying my day was I waited longingly for my evening to release all my steam in my usual manner. He always gave me his visible approval wordlessly, just watching me intently with that smouldering, piercing stare that would give me valuable material to masturbate over during the lonely nights. Although I secretly did desire a relationship, this silent pact we held led me to orgasm after orgasm after orgasm, and I was scared that anything more I asked for would be rebuked -- or worse, a disappointment to the fantasy that thrived in my mind.
It wasn't until that Thursday night that my stress was at an all time high. I had ended up in the office until way past 8pm, and my anxiety to get home and put on my show was consuming me from within. Regrettably, the intensity of my self-manufactured orgasms was beginning to wane; it was now the time to try something new, something so thrilling and daring that after tonight, nothing from work would get under my skin for the following week.
My routine began as normal. As I swung through my front door I noticed that dusk was beginning to settle and my sun-trap, although warm, was dull. Anxiously, swinging my big Chloe handbag and tweed jacket to the floor, I scuttled across my wooden floor, my new heels clicking with a fierce beat as I checked, hidden by the shadows of his curtains, that he was there. In the half-light, I could see him staring longingly into my flat, waiting as usual. I could just make out the faint burn of his cigarette in his left hand. Good, I thought eagerly, at least he was ready.
